Cartography
by LittleLongHairedOutlaw
Summary: He would explore every inch of her, if given the chance. And she would do the same to him, map him and imprint him on her memory, if he were not so very afraid of what she might think of him.
1. Considerations

**A/N: It's so long since I've written smut I've forgotten what it's like. Anyway, have some nice smut. I hope it's not too bad.**

* * *

To explore her, that's all he wants. To explore every inch of her, map her, engrave her on his memory forever. (He is not quite certain that he is not dreaming her here.) To hold her hands spread wide, their fingers interlinked, and kiss her throat, that column of smooth, delicate cream. Trail down along her pulse, feel it beat against his lips. Kiss her clavicles, run his tongue along the dip right at the base of her neck, and the hollow where the two bones do not meet. Taste her salty sweat tempered by the soft lavender of her soap. Breathe her in, as close as he can.

Brush his lips against her collarbone, the skin so smooth and soft. His heart aches, twisting desperately for that closeness. He would not hurt her, he would be ever so gentle, as if she were a newly-hatched chick cradled in his hand, so very fragile.

His exploration would not stop at her clavicle, of course. It would continue, his lips pressing and twitching and nuzzling down that gap between her breasts. He would spend some time there, existing in that perfect space, his hands cupped so carefully around those neat, soft globes. (He would live there, if he could, in that dip. Live there and never leave.)

And eventually his exploration would continue, his face pillowed in the flesh of her abdomen. She has gained flesh lately and it becomes her so very much. He had feared, for a time, that she was too thin, at risk of becoming little more than bone, like him. Lately, her beauty seems to have only grown.

Having rested, he would continue, mouthing his way along the crease of her hips, his fingers firmly wrapped around both of her hips, and sweet gasps escaping from her throat. He would groan his response into the soft curls between her legs, the twisting tension in his stomach tightening, forcing him to arch his back or else go mad from the feel of the sheets against him. Yes, he would groan into that secret, hidden place, his tongue probing until finding that little nub, lifting the flap of frighteningly delicate skin to lick right at the spot that always makes her whimper.

(If he were a contortionist, he might lick her and enter her at the same time. But he is not and so must content himself to lick her and swirl that hot nub with his tongue while his fingers slowly push into her tight wetness, one, then two, then three until she clenches tight around him, the nub so much harder now. And he would keep licking while she writhed beneath his ministrations, until her hips bucked into his face and she stilled beneath him, chest heaving with each ragged breath. So beautiful, so very beautiful.)

And he would smile, and…kiss her forehead and…pull her into his arms. Wrap himself around her as they both slipped away in the night…

* * *

He sighs into her stomach, murmuring against the soft cotton of her shift. What he is dreaming she doesn't know, but it is so lovely to see him at peace, free from his nightmares. She squeezes his fingers tight, rubbing her thumb in gentle circles over the back of his hand. Carefully she smooths down his ruffled hair, and draws the bed sheets up to his shoulders, tucking them tight around him. He is not wearing the mask tonight – she eased it from him and set it on the bedside locker, beside the gas lamp. It is so nice to see his face, smooth and easy now in sleep. How she has grown used to those strange hollows and sharp dips…

Her poor husband. Her heart twists for all that he once endured. If she could – if she thought he would let her and not balk for fear of disgusting her with his scars – she would kiss every inch of his body and swear never to leave him. Perhaps she will convince him, someday, and repay some of the tremendous love he has shown her.

Her throat aches with all she dares not speak into the darkness, and her back protests as she twists herself, bending down to press a kiss to his forehead. He snuffles slightly, and she smiles, lying back against the pillows. For tonight, this is enough, at least.


	2. Reflections

He never undresses to make love to her, afraid of what she'll find beneath the dress suit. He will unbutton his trousers as needed, but they will stay on as much as possible, quickly pulled up again when finished. And if he is in his long nightshirt, he also wraps himself in his dressing gown. His face is quite disgusting enough. He could not bear to see her horror of the rest of him.

She has grown used to his being dressed in their intimate moments. She is long-familiar now with the brush of his trousers against her hips as he kneels over her, the crinkle of his shirt as she claws to get under it, the struggle to kiss his neck and his collarbone with his collar getting in the way. (He dispenses with the cravat only because she pulled it off him the first time, but with that exception he remains in full evening dress. As for the mask, she told him from the outset that she would not permit _that_.) And she wouldn't mind, not really, because she adores how dashing he looks in evening dress, but just once, _just once_ she would like to feel his skin against hers as he enters her, would like to press herself against him without the barrier of cloth and be able to kiss him and run her hands over him. Such a simple desire, really. Surely every other wife gets to do it, and she cannot be a true _living wife_ until she does so.

He kisses her neck softly, slowly, eyes drooping closed with oncoming sleep. He has shifted his weight so that, sated, he lies on top of her without hurting her, mumbling soft, incomprehensible words against her skin about how beautiful she is, and how marvellous, and how much he loves her. (She knows them because the formula varies little from one time to the next.) Of course, he is already buttoned up again, the sheets pulled up to his shoulders. One hand lies entwined in her curls, stroking them softly between thumb and forefinger.

She understands his fears, has read them in him. She knows how very afraid he is of her rejecting him should she see beneath his clothes. But she is married to him, and she has learned to love him (and loves him very much, now, unwilling to see a life without him, without his touch and without his voice, and, yes without his mood swings and face too) and she will not reject him, whatever scars and distortion she finds. If he could only see that her words truly _are_ sincere, not mere platitudes.

His murmured words fade into silence, sleep overtaking him and she sighs, inclining her head to press a soft kiss to his forehead. Her poor, dear husband. What must she do to make him see?


	3. Cartographic Endeavours

He sketches her from memory, pencil tracing the contours of her body along the spread-out roll of paper. She is asleep, tucked in against him, but he does not need to see her to draw her. She is imprinted across his memory, carefully obliterating every dark thought, every past murmur of discontent and pain. Everything is Christine, and Christine is everything. There is nothing more left in the world for him now but her.

The pencil lines are delicate, and yet they do not capture the true delicacy of her. The brush of her eyelash, the arch of her cheek. He carefully pencils in each hair of her left eyebrow (276), and then the same with her right brow. He suggests the dimple in her chin, dots in the freckle nestling just over her collarbone.

He is a cartographer, and this is a map. It demands accuracy.

The pencil strokes carry him lower – the soft swell of her breasts, the grace of her fingers and line of her knuckle, the dip of her bellybutton. The sense memory of all these places, both known and hidden, where he has kissed her, tingles on his lips. And it is almost enough to make him want to take her, here and now, but she is asleep with her sweet head on his shoulder and besides, the morphine will not permit him such a pleasure.

(The morphine was so very necessary, earlier, when his fingers would not stop twitching. He measured the dose, and administered it, then dozed for a time with his beautiful wife bathing his head, and woke with the overwhelming urge to draw her.)

The tiredness weighs heavy on him now, set into his bones. He carefully, ever so carefully, finishes the last details of her ankles, and toes, then sits back and surveys his work.

It is perfect, utterly perfect. _She_ is perfect, an undeniable fact.

He sets down the pencil, gently pushes the weights off the corners of the paper, and rolls it tight. He has no need to look at it, when the real thing is asleep leaning into him. Perhaps he will hang it in his work room, to look at and study when his head refuses to settle long enough to compose. She will not mind, surely.

Slowly he stands from the couch, stretches the aching stiffness from his bones. His watch dictates that it is an hour from dawn, but what does the rising and setting of the sun matter in this underground world? Gently, he takes his beautiful Christine in his arms and carries her to bed. She is in her nightdress, and his dressing gown.

(Again, that low hum, deep in his abdomen, subdued by the morphine.)

He has not the energy left to undress, simply kicks off his shoes and crawls in beside her, drawing the covers around them and pulling her tight to his chest. She nuzzles into him, sighing softly, and his eyes slip closed, a world of peace wrapping itself tightly around him.

* * *

He is deep in sleep when she wakes, and she has no desire to wake him. It is some time since he slept well, and though she hoped that the morphine he took would help him, he did not doze for long in her arms before he woke and insisted on drawing a map of her. She wonders, idly, where that map might be now, but dares not move to find it for fear of waking him.

(She would prefer if he did not use the morphine, had given it up before their marriage. But she knows, deep down, that such a thing would be terribly dangerous for him. He has been using it for so long that to give it up now would probably kill him. To keep using it will likely kill him too, but it might give her longer with him and she is too selfish to shorten their time.)

He must surely be uncomfortable, sleeping in his dress suit. If she were a different wife, he a different husband, she might undress him and exchange the dress suit for his night shirt. But then she would see his scars, and how could she look at him, knowing what he has tried so hard to hide (though the scars are a problem only to him) and knowing that he doesn't know that she knows.

But it would be so easy. It would answer some of the questions that burn deep inside of her, to know him, all of him. And yet, yet she would still be unsatisfied, because it wouldn't be quite what she wants. He would still be dressed when he makes love to her, she would not get to have him skin on skin.

She would be betraying his trust so terribly, almost worse than when she unmasked him. How could she do that to him?

She sighs, and presses a soft kiss to his forehead. He does not stir, and she hopes that, for once, his dreams are peaceful.

Carefully, she slips off his jacket, unhooks his watch and lays it down on the bedside table. She took his cravat off him earlier, when he took the morphine, and now she unbuttons his waistcoat, slips her hands down and unbuckles his belt, unbuttoning his trousers.

She is still wearing his dressing gown. He never took it off her when he carried her to bed, and so she unties the sash, slips her arms out and throws it aside. She does not need the warm scent of him on the collar when she has him lying here beside her. Gathering him in her arms, she burrows deeper beneath the bedsheets. She will not sleep again, has slept enough, but she does not need to. All she needs, right now, is to hold him to her, just like this.

He whimpers, low in his throat, the first sound he's made since she woke. She fumbles slightly at the buttons of her nightdress, and opens them just enough to reveal her breasts. Though he is asleep, he nuzzles into that space between them, lips softly brushing her skin. It settles him, as easily as if he were a child, and his warm breath against her is enough to let her dream of a long future before them, where he trusts her implicitly to love him no matter what she may discover of his past.

(Later, she promises herself silently, later she will convince him to let her see him. She must, for both of their sakes.)


	4. Coaxing

**A/N:** **The chapter ended up so long I split it into two, mostly because I was less satisfied with the second half than the first. Expect that half whenever I'm happy with it, which should be in a few days.**

* * *

He rests with his head in her lap, one hand laying idly on his stomach, the other entwined with hers. She rests her own free hand against his throat, the blood rushing through his veins just beneath her fingertips. It is a comfort, a relief to simply exist in the same space like this. She can focus on it and have not troubled thoughts of calamity befall her mind, not when she knows how perfectly safe he is.

And she can plan. Very definitely plan. Planning and consideration are essential if she wishes to see her husband undressed, and she wishes that very much, though the planning hasn't had much success yet, largely because she has yet to formulate an idea that doesn't worry her over making him close himself off even more.

His voice is a soft hum in the background, soothing and swirling around her as he composes poetry to her eyes and her lips and her fingers and the freckle above her collarbone…Her heart stirs for all of his careful observation, the study he has made of her, intricate and in-depth, the smile gracing his lips even now a gentle one.

No wonder he has sketched a map of her. He sketches her a second one now, with his words.

And, oh, but how she would draw him in turn, if drawing were a skill of hers, and if she could truly see him. She would paint him with all of the love he has shown her, and put this same gentle smile on his lips…

She could ask him. Just outright ask him to let her see him, let her take his clothes off piece by piece and run her hands over him and learn him, all of him. It would only take a few simple words. It would not be difficult.

(It might drive him off, would certainly upset him. No. She needs something with a little more _finesse_ and artistry. He certainly appreciates those things well enough, and if she utilised them in a plan, it might improve her chances.)

His hand soft against her cheek stirs her from her thoughts. "My darling, your mind was wandering," he murmurs, eyes twinkling up at her and she smiles back down at him.

"No, Erik, dear. You were being very poetic about how golden my hair is and how it must surely be woven from sunbeams." And she presses the hand she's holding to her lips, kissing his knuckles ever so gently.

The grin lights up his face, and he slowly draws her head down, raising himself for their lips to meet. "It's one of the truest things your dear Erik has ever spoken or believed." His breath is warm against her lips as he slips his tongue slowly between them, mouth opening to admit hers and she moans into him, breasts tingling for his touch. As if he can read her mind, he slips a hand inside of her bodice, cupping her breast and squeezing it gently. A thrill shoots right down to her stomach and he pulls her closer, deepening the kiss so that she's gasping for breath.

She draws herself back, planting a row of soft kisses down his cheek as she catches her breath, a moan slipping from his throat. Maybe, just maybe she can take a chance. There is no time like the present, after all, and if she chooses her words carefully then maybe he might acquiesce. It seems such a cheap trick to pull, to put the proposition to him when he is already so busy with his hands, but it might be her best chance of success in the absence of a proper plan. "Perhaps this time, darling," she murmurs against his cheek, "we might do things a little differently."

His hand slips to her nape, fingers warm and heavy on her skin. "What do you mean by that, my dear?"

"I want," she presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth and another to the lobe of his ear and one to his throat, her lips lingering and maybe taking his own approach is best, "to map you."

He stills beneath her, hand falling from her neck, a shaking breath slipping from his lips. " _Christine-_ "

She raises her head, and presses a finger to his lips, soft yet firm. The glow of the firelight flickers across his face, and she can see the fear burning in his eyes though he tries to hide it. "I love you, Erik, I do. And I want to know you as you know me. To touch you and kiss you and love you. I know there are scars, and likely…other distortions. But I don't care about that. I don't care about any of that. I only care about you."

He whimpers, low in his throat, mouth twisting and fingers trembling. "Er-"

"Ssshh. I know you're afraid, darling. I know. But it will be all right, I promise. I love you, you know that. And if I can stay knowing – knowing all of the things you've done, then I know that I can look upon you as the wonderful, beautiful man you are. I love you so very much." She's pushing now, she knows. But she knows well what her husband is like and she knows she _needs_ to push, at least a little, so that he'll see things her way and understand the depth of her words.

"Erik thinks your standards may be a little skewed." And his lips are sad as they curve into a smile against her finger.

"Maybe so, she smiles, but I'm not going to leave you for how you look. You know that. Don't be afraid, there's no need. Just let me do this. I promise I'm not going to run away." She kisses his forehead gently. "I swear it. I won't hurt you."

He hesitates a moment longer, tinged-yellow eyes so terribly worried and her heart aches for him, then he nods slowly, resignedly.

"All right, if you're certain. But don't say that Erik did not warn you."

She kisses him, gently, carefully, and he sighs into her, his heart not in his kiss the way it was before. Slowly, she unbuttons his dress coat. She does not look, keeps her eyes closed as her fingers slip to his waistcoat, his ornate black waistcoat with the golden braiding that brings out his eyes. They find their way almost instinctively, popping each button free. She breaks the kiss and opens her eyes to find him looking away from her, eyes focussed on the dancing flames in the fireplace. Shifting, she softly kisses his cheek and strokes back his thin hair, then bowing her head, she presses soft kisses to his throat, slowly mouthing her way down his neck. He shudders beneath her touch, and not only from arousal.

When she reaches his collarbone, she leans back, removing her mouth from his skin and carefully opening each button of his shirt. She takes a moment to savour the contrast of the white shirt with the soft glow of his skin from the fire. In his own way, he is so very beautiful, and she is the only one privileged enough to see him wholly. It almost causes a lump in her throat.

This is it. This is the moment she's waited so long for, and though her heart is pounding hard in her chest and his eyes are closed now, she feels terribly calm. (If only he could believe the depth of her love, but he will.) Slowly, she spreads his shirt wide, and takes in the body before her.

He is dangerously thin. She always knew that, could feel it through his clothes, could see it. Yet seeing him now, shirt open, it registers differently, and the lump in her throat grows, aching. Her dear Erik. She should take better care of him. His ribs are so prominent not only can she count each of them, she can see the slight bump in his skin where one must have once cracked and healed, a raised jagged thin line that she runs her fingertips over. His stomach is a concave hollow for all that he eats, and she must make sure that he eats more, and doesn't run himself so ragged, though he has been better later. But, oh he is still so terrifyingly thin. (And she vows, as the tears prick her eyes, to make him eat more and take things slower. He is not a young man, and she will have anything happen to him if she can help it.)

A long, thin scar catches her eye, running from the edge of his bottom right rib to (she presumes) his left hip. (It disappears below the waistband of his trousers, so she cannot be certain of its path.) She traces it with her finger, stopping when she reaches the black fabric of his trousers, a sob threatening to break free. Who did this to him? Who hurt him so? Surely it must have bled a great deal. How did he survive it?

"How did it happen?" she whispers, voice hoarse and almost unrecognisable.

He swallows convulsively, eyes still firmly shut. "A knife fight, in Persia. He was killed. The Daroga…the Daroga treated it." He keeps himself out of it, and her heart aches. How painful must it have been for him, being torn open like that? She knows he was probably the one to kill his attacker, with his lasso, but she wishes she could have been there, so that it might never have happened in the first place.

She bows her head, and kisses the scar softly, again, and again, and again. A line of soft kisses pressed along the ridge of scar tissue. He shudders beneath her touch, a half-choked sob keening in his throat. " _Christine-_ "

"I'd kill them," she whispers against his skin. "I'd kill anyone who ever hurt you so". A tear slips from her eye and runs hot down her cheek, landing on his belly. If she had been there she would have nursed him, protected him. The image drifts before her, her poor Erik with his knife wound weeping and skin burning with fever, eyes bright and delirious. It would have been so easy for him to slip away then, to let go and die, but instead he fought and lived and he's lying here now with her loving him, and it's that thought that she needs to cling to and not the other, that assurance that _yes, he is here_ and _yes, he is alive_ , and _yes, he is well, now_.

She raises her head and kisses him, full on the lips, and now he kisses her back, his own tears mingling with hers.

"Oh, Christine. I never dared to dream."


	5. Examinations

**A/N: The second half of the previous chapter. As far as I can tell, there's only one more chapter left. And thank you to everyone who has been following this thing!**

* * *

They re-locate to the bed, and swathe themselves with the bedsheets. He is still only half-dressed, trousers untouched and shirt still on though open. Arms wrapped tight around each other, they cuddle together. Half-surprised, half-touched tears still slip down his cheeks, their faces pressed together. She shifts her lips, catching them and drinking them in. Even they are so very precious, because they are his and it would not do to waste them, to leave them to dry and sting his fragile face. And if she could take away every ounce of every hurtful thing that anyone has ever said or done to him she would in an instant. "It's all right now, my darling," she whispers. "It's all right, I promise. You need worry no longer. I'm right here. I'll always be here." She pulls him closer, stroking back his hair until his tears ease, breaths slowing back to normal. He nuzzles into his throat, and sighs, craving to be closer to this warmth of hers and unable to get any closer.

In silence, they lie like that for a long time, neither willing to break the peace, wrapped in their own thoughts. And though he is tired, and worried still because she has not seen all of the scars, he smiles slightly against her. If he could have her here, just like this, for the rest of his life then he would, and never ask a thing of her.

Eventually, she lets her hands creep up under his shirt. There are long, thing lines under her palms, and it takes her a moment to realise that these are scars too. He tenses beneath her touch, and stutters a sigh as she asks, "And these?"

He swallows convulsively, eyes closing. "Whips from when…when I travelled with the gypsies. It was not long before they came to fear me and it stopped." He knows better, now, than to mention how very young he was at the time, and the cage which he was confined to initially, while his ankle healed after they first beat him. It would only upset her to know those details, though likely she has guessed. His dear Christine is quite quick, after all. Besides, not all of the gypsies were cruel to him. It only took one or two, and the rest kept away. He preferred it like that.

Slowly, he wraps his long fingers around her wrist, guiding her hand around him to feel his back better. She will want to know the extent of it, and he cannot deny her that knowledge, not now. "There is...a collection of them."

She nods and gently, almost hesitantly, taking his words as a cue, she rolls him over, shifting away the bedsheets and slipping his shirt off fully to take in the full scope of the scars. There are not as many of them as she feared – long thin ridges in overlapping webs. But though there are less than she expected, there is no room in her chest for relief. Her heart twists, fingers lightly ghosting over the marred flesh and he sucks in a shuddering breath.

They should not exist, these scars. He should never have been subjected to such things, and especially not as a child. She knows enough of his life by now to know that it must have happened when he was only a boy, though he's never quite given affirmation one way or the other. And though she is powerless to take them away, to ease the pain that they must surely have caused as they were inflicted, she brushes her lips gently over the twisted skin, as if she truly were an angel and could heal him.

 _And his spine_. She can see the knobs of his spine, can trail her fingers down over them and count them and though she is almost positive that this terrible thinness is part of the distortion that has affected his face so, still she is powerless against the roiling guilt that tells her that she needs to help him to gain flesh, so that he does not simply fade away. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm sorry for what they did to you." The wave of regret, of remorse, that washes over her is breathtaking. It cannot be easy for him to lie bare before her and let her see, to draw up the memories in such a way. "I'm sorry for making you show them to me."

"Do not be." His voice is hoarse, terribly so. "I…I am sorry for not trusting you to accept them."

"Erik, darling. I understand, I do." She presses a kiss to the back of his neck, and rolls him back over, laying her head down on his chest. His arm slips up around her, pressing her close to him, his warmth a reminder that he is safe here, now, with her. Nothing can harm him, can take him away and hurt him. And telling herself that goes some way to taking the sting out of her tears.

The scars on the insides of his arms, the pinpricked hollows from his morphine, are nothing new to her, do not cause the same twisting pain inside. Instead it is a wave of sadness that seeps through her at the sight of them now, and ever so lightly she runs her fingers over them. No wonder he needs the morphine to help him sleep, if his scars are any indication of what goes on inside of his head, the horrors he has been faced with.

 _"_ There are several more, _"_ he whispers into the darkness, voice rumbling deep in his chest. She needs to know, after all, he can see that now though he hates to upset her by telling her of them but if it were the other way around, and she were the one with these scars and these horrors, would he not want to know too? "The one here," he takes her hand and presses it to a place high on his right side along his chest, hidden by his arm, "they shot at me as I crossed the border out of India. It creased me, but I could do nothing about it until I'd crossed a hundred miles and found a cave to lie low in for a time. It almost wore the horse out."

At his words she can picture him, a black-cloaked figure mounted on a dark horse, galloping across the barren land, a knight or a magician conjured from legend. "It stopped bleeding during the ride," he goes on softly, "but I was weak for a long time after it. _"_ The scar is thick beneath her fingers, stretching across his side from chest to back, and how terribly lucky he was that it wasn't high enough to shatter his shoulder, or over enough to pierce his chest. He would have undoubtedly died out there, and the tears burn her eyes again.

She twists herself, and presses a kiss to the scar, hiding her tears from view. It would only upset him to see her crying like this over his old wounds.

"There's one across my left thigh," he continues, as though he is oblivious to her lips though he could never be, "from a sword fight in the Sultan's court, and a matching one at my right hip from the same fight."

She does not hesitate before deciding not to see those ones now. They can wait. She has enough images of him to fill her mind for a time, and if she can bury herself in his bare chest like this, then she fancies she need never see the rest of him. (But she wants to, oh how she wants to, and even now there is that thrill in her stomach at the thought of stroking her fingers over his powerful thighs, scars or no.) It is enough, for now, to have seen these, (to have seen _him_ ) and kissed them. Yet, she cannot deny that the desire is there, and at his nodded assent she slides a hand beneath the waistband of his trousers, and seeks out these hidden scars, thick beneath her touch. (His skin radiates heat, and his manhood stirs a moment as she grazes her fingertips over it, but they are both too drained now to do anything about it.)

"Perhaps next time," she murmurs, "I will kiss them too."

He chuckles feebly, then the chuckle becomes a sob that she can feel ripping through him. Carefully, she shifts their positions, so that he is back in her arms, his face buried in her neck and his tears hot against her skin as he softly keens, " _Oh, Christine._ "

She doesn't speak, she _can't_ speak around the lump in her throat, can only kiss his forehead and cradle him close, rocking him like a child and silently vowing to love him more, every moment of every day of the rest of her life. Never again will she leave it so that he can doubt her when she says, _I will stay_. And long into the night, they cling to each other as if they are the survivors of a shipwreck, cast adrift, their words whispers half-lost to the darkness.


	6. Dénouement

She comes to him wearing one of his shirts. It hangs down past her knees, the white silk setting off the golden glow of her skin from the candlelight. She is soft from sleep, eyes heavy and little hands so very warm.

He is sprawled on the divan, enjoying a peaceful half-doze now that he has soothed the music in his blood in a composition of roses and light. He _would_ have crawled into bed beside her, if he had not been afraid of waking her. She looked so young and innocent in her sleep, curled up in a ball with one hand resting lightly on his pillow, face half-hidden behind her golden curls. Leaving aside the morphine - he is content enough to sleep peacefully without it tonight, even away from her side - he settled on the divan, only the candles and fire for company.

Her warm hand against his cheek wakes him from a hazy dream of dancing with her in his arms, her head against his chest and their fingers entwined.

And now she takes his hand, as in the dream, lacing their fingers together and pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. Her bare legs are so very warm against his clothed ones, and even at her touch there is a tingling in the pit of his stomach.

"Come to bed, my love," she murmurs against his forehead, breath warm and words vibrating through him, the tingling growing. "You'll hurt your back sleeping out here."

His lips curve into a wry smile, one long-fingered hand coming to rest on her warm thigh. "I would, my darling, but I am not quite certain that I can move." It is not a lie - his legs and back are stiff as it is. He shifts to alleviate some of the growing pressure in his trousers, an aching warmth in his stomach just at her presence.

Her eyes twinkle, a shining glint, and she kisses the corner of his mouth. "Perhaps, then, we ought to free you up." The murmured words hold a promise that goes right to his heart.

He has no time to contemplate, before her fingers slip to his waistcoat, gently flicking open each button. A nauseous wave of hesitation mingled fear washes through him, a cold shiver down his spine, and he wraps his hand around hers a moment to slow the path of her fingers. She has seen him. He has no reason to fear her revulsion, he knows. She's kissed his scars and bathed with him, and held him when he could not stop the tears trickling from his eyes. _It will be all right_ , and her words are soft in his ear, echoing the ones in his head. _It will be all right_.

She acquiesces to his need to wait, as patient as ever, and nuzzles his throat, slipping one hand up under his shirt to tease his nipples. Her fingers ghost over the scar they encounter on the way, and a hot thrill shoots straight to his loins, his throat dry.

And he needs her, suddenly, pressed against him skin on skin, her soft breasts warm in his hands and her lips there and there and there, kissing a trail. His very body demands it, knows that he is safe, here in her hands, and he takes a shaky breath.

"My darling," his voice is hoarse, and he has to gasp a breath when she twists his nipple just so, and he can feel her smiling against his throat.

"Yes, Erik, dear?" Her words are so sweet, almost innocent and it's maddening.

He releases her fingers, guiding them to a button and opening it. "Could you continue?"

"It would be my pleasure." Still ministering to his nipples, she works his waistcoat open one-handed, her mouth sucking a trail down his neck. He flicks a button open on her shirt – well, his shirt, but it hardly matters now – and slips a hand inside, cupping her breast. A surge runs from the palm of his hand to his heart. She is so soft and warm in his hand, her breast a gentle weight, and he massages it, moulds it between his fingers, her skin satin and her lips nuzzling the scar high on his side. His trousers have never been so tight, manhood rubbing up against the fabric and instead of stifling the burning ache simply drives it on, and he can feel himself dripping and he should be ashamed but he cannot bring himself to be, not when her fingers are so light, a tingling trail along his stomach brushing his open shirt away until they reach his waistband and slip slowly under.

A whimper slips from his throat, those tantalising lips reaching the long scar slashing from under his ribs, mouthing slowly. Her fingers snag on his trousers button, and he needs her touch, needs it now like a balm on this ache that he cannot escape no matter how he shifts and doesn't really want to anyway.

She gets the button open, her lips below his navel now, tingling warmth spreading through him at his new-found freedom as she slips his trousers down. And her fingers, those sweet travelling, roving fingers wrap themselves around his shaft, tips grazing over his leaking head and he gasps on the air, eyes snapping open though he can't re-call closing them and it doesn't matter, not with her lips so soft that too-sweet ache spreading through him that he can do nothing about.

Her lips seek out the crease of his hip, the corner of one scar and her tongue flicks out, warm and wet, and his heart just might beat its way through his chest if she keeps on like this, licking along to his inner thigh. He withdraws his hand from her breast, fingers twitching too much to properly feel her as they snake into her tumbling hair, twining tight through the silk-soft curls.

A string of words reach his ears and he cannot make them out through the sighs but they do not matter and it is his voice though it does not sound like his voice, muffled and hoarse, all command lost. And he is so hard now, cannot possibly hold on much longer, not with her lips pulling at the base of his manhood.

Hardly the thought crosses his mind when the lips are gone, her warm tongue slipping into his mouth, hands woven beneath his head. She shifts, straddling his hips and he is seeking her out, that hidden space between her legs in its thatch of hair, so hot and wet now and it is so easy to push himself inside, her teeth biting his bottom lip and she is so tight around him as he thrusts once, twice, as deep as he can into her and she whimpers into his mouth, begging him to keep going, an aching knot beneath his navel, growing and growing, driving the air out of his chest and he can't breathe, breaths stuttering and the fabric of his shirt rough against his chest because she is the one wearing it and she is wrapped up in him just as he is wrapped up in her and he thrusts again, hips bucking and her breath hitching.

He spills inside of her, the weakening wave of relief washing over him, eyes rolling so all he sees are stars. She collapses against him, lips slipping so that she is gasping against his cheek as his hips buck again, and again. His chest is heaving, lungs burning as he fights to breathe. All he can do is lie there beneath her, boneless and spent. His eyes slip closed as she nuzzles into his throat, and he sighs, the burning easing as he gets a full breath of air. She holds him tighter, as if he might fall off of the divan or otherwise slip away on her (and how they did not fall off before he does not know, and besides, she is the one lying at the edge.)

"Thank you." His lips form the words, unknown to him, and what he is thanking her for he cannot be certain except that it seems the thing to say, after that. And she was not revolted by his scars, instead kissed them and is kissing him again now.

"You're welcome, my love." He hears rather than sees her smile, and it enough. A smile graces his own lips, and she kisses them, too, again, the mists of sleep bearing him away. But it does not matter, not with her tucked up warm again. Nothing matters now, except for her.


End file.
